


'con clavis'

by merentha13



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:00:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merentha13/pseuds/merentha13
Summary: Cowley's view of the lads after a trying job





	'con clavis'

The operation concluded late Thursday evening. Two weeks of little sleep, non-stop running from one end of London to the other and several injured agents later, CI5 had successfully stopped a large cache of weapons from making its way to Ireland. 

But this victory came with a cost.

From his office window twenty-four hours after the finish of the job, Cowley watched a tense denim clad figure march rapidly across the car park. He knew it would come to this. He should have stopped it before it began. He’d had the option at that time. But he hadn’t acted. And how could he have? As different as chalk and cheese, fire and ice, night and day, dark and light they were, but there was magic in their partnership. The idealistic copper learned the value of pragmatism, the hardnosed mercenary discovered compassion. Mulish stubbornness met an immoveable object. And then they both bent – only a little, but enough. They were his best. He was losing them. And why? 

As unlikely as it seemed – were they _too_ close?

He heard the Capri’s engine roar as it raced down the street. He turned and gathered up his coat and briefcase. He was not going to let them go without a fight.

They owed him.

He owed them.

 

Several hours after settling behind the cluttered desk in Doyle’s flat to review reports of the just finished op, Cowley heard leaden footsteps on the stairs. He closed the files he’d been working on and took a sip of his drink. He stared at the glass and decided that Doyle needed to be taught a thing or two about choosing fine malt. He heard the key in the lock and sat back in his chair.

The door slid open slowly and the barrel of a Walther PPK edged silently around the door’s edge. 

“Is that how you greet your guests, 4.5?” Cowley called out.

“Guests are usually invited and don’t normally engage in B&E.” Doyle entered the flat, tucking his gun back into the holster under his arm as he locked the door. “And I’m sure I didn’t invite you.” Doyle took note of the whisky bottle on his desk. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you.”

Doyle took off his coat and tossed it on the couch. It slid off the back of the cushions and puddled on the floor. He left it there.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked belligerently as he started pacing - stopping every so often to adjust a book on a shelf, a toy soldier on the mantle, a plant on the kitchen worktop. 

“I’m here about Bodie.”

“What’s the point?” Doyle shrugged, but Cowley could read the anger and the pain in Doyle’s posture as he turned away. “He made it clear what he thought of me – and you for that matter.” Doyle turned a bitter smile towards his boss. 

Cowley remained silent. Doyle needed to rant, to complain, to yell in order to work things out – usually Bodie’s role – to listen and soothe, but the man wasn’t here. Doyle ran a hand through messy curls. “Has he turned in his resignation yet?”

“No.”

“’m surprised.”

“Doyle, put yourself in Bodie’s place for a moment. The man had been on his feet for thirty-six hours; he was searching for you. He put you ahead of the job – and I’ll be talking to him about that very shortly.”

“No sense in that is there? He’s gone.” Doyle sat down heavily on the settee. He put his head in his hands.

“Doyle, what did he say to you before he walked away?”

“Said he was done protectin’ my sorry arse as it didn’t seem I cared much what happened to it. Yelled at me for goin’ in too soon, for not letting him know what I was up to, for almost getting me head blown off – oh, and he had a few choice words for you, too. Said he was tired of being put in situations where he didn’t know how or why he was there. Said somethin’ about maybe I was right and his blind military obedience was detrimental to his health. Said he was done with everything CI5 – me, the partnership and you.” Doyle took a deep breath. “He said his resignation would be on your desk when you got to the office in the morning-” Doyle leaned back on the couch and struggled to get something out of his jean’s pocket. He held the item tight in his hands and closed his eyes. “He gave me back his key to my flat.”

Cowley watched as the key was placed gently on the coffee table. He cleared his throat. “As he hasn’t turned in his resignation, maybe he’s changed his mind.”

“I spent the last two hours checking his flat and his local. He’s cleared his clothes out of the flat. He’d stopped into his local for a few pints after you’d dismissed him on Thursday. Didn’t say anything to the barman to say where he was going. The garage where he kept the Vauxhall is empty. He’s gone.”

Cowley stopped himself from interrupting as Doyle’s voice got rough and his words became harder to hear.

“My fault,” Doyle looked up. “I should’ve let him know what I had planned.” He stood up and started pacing again. “Should’ve let him know a lot of things.”

“He knows, Doyle.”

Doyle turned towards him with surprise. “You know, too?”

“I suspected. This,” Cowley waved his hand in the air between Doyle and the key, “confirms it.”

A knock turned both their attentions to the door. Doyle put his hand on the butt of his gun and looked through the peep hole. “Bloody hell.” He opened the door and found Bodie looking down at his shoes. 

“What the fuck, Bodie?” His voice cracked on the name.

Bodie looked up sheepishly. “I seem to have lost my key.” 

Cowley watched the silent communication that passed between his two agents.

_’Forgive me?'_

_’Always.'_

Cowley coughed quietly to remind them that they were not alone. He gathered up his coat and briefcase for the second time that night. “My office, gentlemen. Eight o’clock.” He heard their groan and all was right in his world again. Smiling to himself as he walked through the door he added, “Monday morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> “From the Latin, con clavis: 'with a key'.” 


End file.
